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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890880">you want everything live, you want things you can touch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooncrash/pseuds/mooncrash'>mooncrash</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>sax and violence [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Team Fortress 2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, F/M, Fake Marriage, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hints of domestic bliss, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-The Naked And The Dead, Reunions, of a sort, pronouncing monday like mundy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:02:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,267</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooncrash/pseuds/mooncrash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>God, you really do still upstage the entire sunset. Or maybe that’s just the rest of the world fading to grey, your face radiant in full-spectrum Kodachrome. Your eyes still light up when you see him, and all of a sudden, he can barely breathe.<br/>"Mundy?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sniper (Team Fortress 2)/Reader, Sniper (Team Fortress 2)/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>sax and violence [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879597</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you want everything live, you want things you can touch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>She's shorter! She's sweeter! She's... two pages of self-indulgence started at midnight yesterday.<br/>A quick aside: I think Sniper's full name is Richard "Dick" Mundy, as a reference to the movie <em>Crocodile Dundee,</em> whose titular character is named Michael "Mick" Dundee.<br/>The title is, what else, song lyrics! These ones are from "Dreamland" by Glass Animals. The vibes on that one truly are impeccable.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Today would <em>not </em>have been a good day to die again. It’s chilly, damp, a little breezy, and there’s been an on-and-off drizzle hanging around all day that’s really grinding Mundy’s gears and fucking with his knees. It’s really a stroke of luck that Saxton Hale concussed Scout with a box of pants, because the damp was a pain, but the cold would’ve killed him. He’s seriously contemplating going to Medic to see if he’s got just some goddamn ibuprofen, <em>anything</em> to help with this, when the hair on the back of his neck stands up.</p><p>Mundy’s first instinct is that the rain’s finally come back, this time with lightning and murderous intent. When there’s no flash of white behind his closed eyelids and no thunder that follows, however, he allows himself to hope, to look around. His instincts don’t lie. Maybe, just <em>maybe… </em></p><p>His eyes finally settle on a figure talking to Miss Pauling and his heart leaps into his throat. You thank her and turn away and when your eyes meet his, the lightning’s finally struck.</p><p>This is the first time Richard Mundy's seen you in six months.</p><p>God, you really do still upstage the entire sunset. Or maybe that’s just the rest of the world fading to grey, your face radiant in full-spectrum Kodachrome. Your eyes still light up when you see him, and all of a sudden, he can barely breathe. "Mundy?" He's not sure why you phrased it like a question, he knows he looks exactly the same as he did six months ago, but it's so comfortingly like you to always ask, like you were somehow the one surprised he stuck around you. He can feel his voice break when he says, "Darlin’," he can feel his heart racing and tripping over itself, and when you come sprinting over and he finally, <em>finally</em> gets to lift you into a spin before settling you in his arms again, he can feel the last hints of the evening sun on his face for the first time since his parents passed.</p><p>Unbidden, a million thoughts, ideas, and abandoned plans come flooding back to the surface: about you, about his family, about an unbuilt house on a hillside with a freshly painted wooden fence. He pushes them all back down and focuses on you, the round of your cheeks, the look in your eyes as you gaze up at him. "How ya been, angel 'mine?" he whispers hoarsely, tracing the curve of your eye socket with his thumb. "Been better, beloved," you murmur just as quietly, one hand finding a particular scar and tracing it with your fingertips through the fabric of his shirt.</p><p>His grip trails over your arms, your elbows, your hands when you eventually detach from him and pull away. First his fingers and then his gaze fall onto a pair of stacked bands on your left ring finger. A cold settles into his stomach, steals over his arms and causes him to stumble a little where he stands. Fear trickles through him as he’s forced to come to terms with the fact that maybe you <em>did</em> move on. Fuck. You always could’ve done better than him anyway. The trickle of cold turns into a deluge down his back and he can feel himself beginning to wilt.</p><p>Despite this, he manages a jerky nod at your left hand.</p><p>"Married now?"</p><p>"Of a sort." If there's a somewhat embarrassed look to your smile, he tries not to notice it. You go digging in your right pocket and oh, if it's a picture of the lucky guy, he is <em>not</em> gonna be able to feign happiness about it.</p><p>It's not a picture.</p><p>You've flipped open your wallet to reveal a state of Colorado ID, your bored-looking face next to a first name he knows isn't yours and a last name that he recognizes like his own. Your teasing voice echoes in his ears, a lifetime ago, before he knew your name, your smile, your love- <em>Hey Monday, how was your weekend?</em> His mouth goes dry. The cold is <em>miles </em>off now. He can't even remember the feeling. "Monday?" he asks, looking up at you, still not quite believing his luck. "Just enough change to throw someone off," you say, giving a self-conscious little laugh. He’s barely there though, his mind is swirling, and at the centre of it all- <em>you took his last name.</em> Odd? Roundabout? Sure. But in a self-referential, inside joke sort of way. His name, your fingerprints all over it. <em>Happy Monday, Mundy, </em>mumbled into the side of his neck, grinning above the beginnings of a bruise before you set to work deepening it. Ah. That morning. And afternoon. And also evening. He shifts awkwardly in place.</p><p>You’ve definitely noticed how his fingers have tightened around yours, and the edge to your smile, just a little bit mean, is as familiar as the barrel of his gun and sets his nerves alight. Six months, it’s been. Six months of taking himself in hand, trying to remember the way you smell, the pleased and breathless sounds you make, the greedy look in your eyes as you watch how he reacts to your touch. “Dick?” Your knowing smirk is obvious in your voice and cuts through the heady haze of memories.</p><p>Right. Business. In public. In front of coworkers. Not the time for this. Mundy self-consciously clears his throat and pointedly directs his thoughts elsewhere.</p><p>“Colorado?” Scout suddenly interjects over your shoulder, seemingly ignorant to the moment that just passed between the two of you. You’re responding with a yes, fishing out the likely fake ID one-handed and passing it to Scout, the other hand still curled around Mundy’s. He doesn’t bother tuning in to your explanation, he already knows why you picked Colorado. <em>You took his last name.</em> Scout’s asking about Monday now, you’re responding, he’s barely listening. <em>You took his last name. </em></p><p>“Hey, hey Snipes? You in there?” Scout’s waving a hand in front of his face now, tapping his foot in exaggerated annoyance. As Mundy blinks out of a daze for the second time today, Scout’s started talking again. “Sheesh, looked like you’s was starin’ straight through me! Creeped me the hell out. Anyway, like I was askin’,” he directs his attention back to you, “why’d you go and get fake married anyway?” Your ears go a little pink and you look off to the side as you mumble out some excuse about needing a good cover story, and Mundy swears his heart goes cactus for a second as he looks down at the bands on the hand he’s still holding. Yep. A cover story named Monday. A pair of rings on one hand. He looks at you, <em>all </em>of you, and just for a second, he can almost <em>see</em> that cute little house with the brand-new fence, clear as day. Scout squints at your half-baked explanation for a moment before shrugging and launching himself into a thrilling recap of his near-death experience.</p><p>“… and then we almost <em>died, </em>and I’m pretty sure I <em>did </em>die, actually, and ugh, <em>Spy </em>was there, but then Tom Jones showed up! And- “ You’re still nodding politely, but you’re squinting at Scout like he’s speaking in tongues and cutting your eyes to Medic in obvious concern. Mundy stifles a chuckle, tugging you into his side and whispering in your ear, “Y’know, every word of that is true, darlin’. Or should I say, <em>Monday.”</em></p><p>You instantly flush again and shift into his side, rising to the obvious bait. “Ah, well, you see- Wait a second, <em>really?”</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Aussie-to-English translation, <em><b>going cactus</b></em> means to break.<br/>I like two (2) kinds of metaphors and those are water metaphors and sun metaphors. Take what you will from this. Also, a million bonus points if you caught the reference to "Memphis" by Kitten. Really, the entire second-to-last verse of that song just screams Sniper to me, but that's another idea for another fic. Please someone help me, I am overflowing with song recommendations.</p><p>You can find me on Tumblr at <a href="https://viticomae.tumblr.com/">viticomae</a> if you wanna say hi! Thank you for reading! Xx</p></blockquote></div></div>
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